No Mercy (13 page)

'You can hear the bell throughout the house, I'd have
thought. And there are cobwebs in the hall. Don't like this
too much.'

'Neither do I. We'll move on to Champton Place. I hope her sister Anne's at home.'

'Did you tell Lucinda about the truck left stationary on the
road?' Paula asked as they threaded their way amid one
traffic jam after another.

'No, I didn't. And she didn't say anything about a vehicle
being missing.'

'That's odd. What about the strange statement Michael
made only once — "I witnessed murder"?'

'I'm not mentioning that to anyone until Michael's
amnesia clears up. If it ever does.'

Champton Place was well down the property ladder
compared with Yelland Street: blocks of small four-storey
terrace houses, the walls shabby, the curtains old, scraps of
paper floating down the street in the breeze that had blown up.

'Here we are,' Tweed said, parking outside No. 187. The next curtains on the ground floor were clean; the few steps
leading up to the front door had been washed; the metal bell
push had been polished recently. Tweed looked up and
down the street to make sure they had not been followed,
then rang the bell. The freshly painted green door was
opened swiftly. A pleasant-looking woman in her thirties
with red hair neatly brushed peered out, keeping the door on a heavy chain.

Tweed introduced himself and Paula, held his folder close
so the occupant could read it easily. The response was instantaneous: the door closed, they heard the chain being
removed, the door reopened.

'You have news about Christine? I'm Anne, her sister. Do
come in.'

All spoken in a rush. As they entered a narrow hall Paula
noticed that the cheap wall-to-wall
carpet had been
hoovered recently. A mirror on the wall carried not a speck
of dust. Anne Barton
showed them into a small sitting room,
invited them to sit down, then pulled a chair close to them
and sat down. Her expression was hopeful, tinged with doubt.

'I'm sorry to say we have no positive news,' Tweed said
quickly. 'We're endeavouring to find out where she might
have disappeared to. And have you any idea when she was
last seen - maybe by you?'

'Four months ago today. She worked from home in
Yelland Street. She bought me that beautiful Swedish glass
vase on the window ledge over there. Must have cost a
packet but she was always so generous. I haven't seen her
since.'

Anne Barton was about five foot eight tall, slimly built
with grey eyes and a pleasant face with good features. She
wore a print dress and smart high-heeled shoes. Paula suspected she had little money but splashed out on shoes.
The room's furniture, tasteful but inexpensive, bore out her theory. Anne started talking.

'I'm so glad to see you, to know that someone is doing
something. She was supposed to be back the same day after
going to see an important client. . .'

'Excuse me,' Tweed intervened, 'do you know the name of
the client?'

'No idea. Christine was always so discreet about her work.
She told me a lot of it was confidential. She was always
smarter than me. Not that this affected our close friendship.
She was a forensic accountant. Top-of-the-tree stuff. A firm
would be worried about the state of its accounts, had gone
to one of the big outfits who said everything was OK. The firm wasn't satisfied so they'd call in Christine. If anything was cleverly hidden, she'd find it.'

'Did you report she was missing to anyone?'

'Yes, I did.' Anne sat up straight and Paula sensed
indignation. 'I went to the police, was guided to a particular
department and saw a real thick-headed chap. He opened a
ledger, started asking questions. Had she a boyfriend? No, I said. What about her parents? Maybe she had run off to
them. I told him our parents were dead. I could tell he
wasn't interested. He gave me a lecture about the number of
people who disappear for various reasons and are never seen
again. He said he'd taken down the details and they'd go on
file. I was furious. By the time I got back here I was in
despair.'

'So what did you do next?' Tweed asked gently.

'You're very perceptive. I did what I should have done in
the first place. Christine left me a key so when she had to go
off on a trip I could keep an eye on her place. It looked OK
when I walked in. I went straight to her wardrobe, checked
her clothes. Nothing missing. Her two travelling cases were
there. In the bathroom I found her toilet bag. If she'd gone
for more than a day she'd never have left that. I wished I'd
done this before I visited the police. Then I realized it
wouldn't have made any difference to Thickhead.'

'We called at Yelland Street before we came here.'
explained Tweed. 'The name plate on the wall has been
polished.'

'That was me,' Anne replied. 'I couldn't stand it when it started to get mouldy.'

'You said you had a key to her place,' Tweed recalled. 'If
you'd be willing to loan it to us we'll go back to search. We
might just find something.'

'Oh, would you?' Relief flooded her pale face. Reaching
into the handbag she had perched on the back of her chair,
she produced a Chubb key, then a Banham, and handed them to him.

'When you've finished you can drop both keys back
through my letterbox in this envelope. Save you time. If you
could phone me briefly with news, I'd be so grateful.' She
handed him a card.
'There's the phone number.'

'We'll phone,' Tweed promised. He gave her his own card.
'If something occurs to you, don't hesitate for a minute to
call me at this number. However trivial. A stranger calling,
say. Note his description.'

'I can't tell you both how grateful I am,' she repeated.